


they will know us by the trail of dead

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Dark Peter, Dark Stiles, Eichen | Echo House, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Mates, Memory Alteration, Mental Instability, Murder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Temporary Amnesia, Torture, True Mates, Violation, Wrongful Imprisonment, mental violation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3928822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>True mates should never be torn apart. Let this be a lesson to the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Steter Amnesia AU gifset](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/114820) by cocoslash. 



> Title derived from American rock band.
> 
> I cleaned this up from the tumblr version. Idk if I'll continue it. We'll see how many people I can put on Stiles and Peter's hit list.

 

The truth is, Stiles doesn't remember because the Pack doesn't want him to.

 

* * *

 

When it was revealed that Stiles and Peter are mates, it doesn’t take long for the Pack to agree that it would be for the best and even Stiles’ own good to separate the two in any way possible and as soon as possible. Peter can’t be trusted, and it will only ever be a matter of time before the former Alpha betrays them.

Worse still, Stiles has been getting more and more attached after some initial wary circling. Peter is admittedly charming when he wants to be, smart enough to challenge Stiles, and sarcastic and witty and cunning with a mind for details and plotting, everything that Stiles both _is_ and is _attracted to_ , and Peter knows it.

So it’s infinitely better to put a stop to it before Stiles inevitably gets hurt. The Sheriff naturally agrees too; magical bond or no magical bond, Peter is too old and a bad influence on his son, and the blood on the werewolf’s hands only hammers that point home.

The Pack expects some protests, some arguments, but they thought he would understand after they lay it out; they didn't expect him to outright try to attack them when Derek, Scott, and Isaac corner Peter and hold him down while Lydia swiftly injects him with a heavy enough dose of wolfsbane to drop him in seconds, features still halfway twisted into a feral, desperate snarl.

Stiles screams at them, curses them, claws at any bare skin he can reach, betrayal and rage painting a vivid picture across his face.

“It’s okay,” Scott tries to reassure his best friend. “We’re just putting him in Eichen House. It’s not like we’re killing him or anything. It’ll be like jail time for him. He deserves prison, bro.”

They drag Peter away. Stiles doesn’t stop fighting them until he literally exhausts himself against their collective superior strength, and even then, he succeeds in breaking Scott’s jaw first with a well-aimed fist.

After that, it’s… not good. Stiles barely speaks to them, barely even _looks_ at them when he can avoid it, including his own father. None of the other werewolves have mates; Derek isn’t even fully convinced they’re real because true mates are rare enough that he’s never met a pair. His own parents weren’t true mates despite how much they loved each other. The Pack doesn’t understand why Stiles continues siding with an ex-serial killer, especially Scott who is long used to his brother in all but blood always being there at his side when he turns around.

 

* * *

 

The first time Stiles breaks into Eichen House and somehow almost makes it to Peter’s cell before he’s caught by a guard doing his rounds a few minutes early, the Pack realizes they have a problem, especially since the only thing Stiles is sorry about is failing. He sits through the Sheriff lecturing him and outright yelling at him, ignores Lydia’s increasingly irritated attempts to make Stiles see reason, and seethes in the face of Scott’s pleas and reminders of all the people Peter killed when he was crazy.

“Exactly! _When he was crazy!_ ” Stiles shouts. “What about Derek, huh? You’re not making _him_ pay for abandoning a packmate and leaving him to rot and ripping his throat out!”

“Derek had to do it!” Scott says defensively. “Peter was evil!”

“And all the people Peter killed _weren’t?!_ ” Stiles snarls. “You’re condemning him for that right now! Or are you gonna tell me burning an entire family to death can be justified?” Something cruel pulls his mouth up like the edge of a blade as he spits out, “Because the person responsible was precious Allison’s _bitch_ of an aunt, and so she can be forgiven?”

Scott recoils like Stiles just stabbed him, and he has nothing to counter that, but he remains infuriatingly stubborn about his decision for Peter’s imprisonment all the same. Stiles storms off before he does something rash like stab the Alpha. With wolfsbane. And then keep him alive for as long as it takes to make him  _sorry_.

It becomes clear that Stiles won’t stop until he gets Peter out. They have to watch him like a hawk now to make sure Stiles isn’t planning another breakout, and every time the Sheriff searches Stiles’ room, the blueprints and notes they confiscated always somehow return to increasingly hard-to-find hiding places.

It’s only a matter of time before Stiles gives them the slip and tries for Peter again. And this time, they all know he won’t fail.

 

* * *

 

Scott is desperate. This isn’t what he wanted. Stiles is supposed to agree that Peter behind bars is safer for everyone, not try to get him out every time they turn their backs. Stiles is supposed to care about their Pack more than that.

So he goes to Deaton. Asks for a solution. The Pack throws out suggestions. And one of them, maybe Lydia or Isaac or Scott himself, no one can quite remember once the idea is out there, comes up with one simple full-proof answer – if Stiles doesn’t remember Peter, then there wouldn’t be a problem.

Deaton can do it. Scott takes a day to think about it, goes to school and flinches under Stiles’ frigid gaze – a look so cold that it burns – the one time he manages to catch his best friend’s eye.

He gives the go-ahead when they reconvene in Deaton’s clinic that evening.

Derek knocks Stiles out – they don’t want to unnecessarily hurt him if he’s awake and fighting them – and they carry him to Deaton’s place. It barely takes an hour for the druid to work his magic, and then Stiles sleeps for the next eight.

And when he wakes, he looks confused and tired, and he frowns against a headache, but he doesn’t glare at any of them, and when Scott hugs him out of sheer relief, Stiles hugs him back, a bemused half-smile quirking his lips.

 

* * *

 

The Pack thinks that’s the end of it. They have Stiles back, a Stiles who isn’t obsessed with Peter, and Peter is no longer in a position to hurt any of them.

They’re all wrong.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Stiles wakes up screaming from nightmares he can’t quite remember, and for some reason, his eyes leak tears that he can’t explain. when his dad comes running in to soothe him, Stiles wants to break his nose, tear out his throat, make him hurt _hurt **hurt**   **like they’ve hurt him**_ , and he can’t explain that either.

The nightmares continue, almost every night, until they start leaking into Stiles’ waking hours, and he begins getting flashes of a man he doesn’t know. Sometimes, this stranger has burns on his face, other times, he’s screaming, and still others, Stiles only sees a quiet silhouette, yet he knows that it’s always the same person.

And on occasion, usually in his sleep during the few times he isn’t plagued by nightmares, the man is watching him, blue eyes warm, touch possessive in a way that makes Stiles feel cherished, and mouth always curled into a wicked smirk or a soft smile or something in-between, content or amused or smug or happy, and it is happy because of Stiles.

Those are the times when Stiles wakes up with a sob stuck in his throat, cheeks already wet, and feeling as if someone has torn his heart out but didn’t have the mercy to kill the rest of him.

He doesn’t breathe a word about his dreams, even when the Pack asks. _Especially_ when the Pack asks. Stiles can’t come up with a reason for it but something tells him to stay silent, that it’s better that way, that it’s _safer_ , and so he does.

 

* * *

 

He only gets worse from there. Quieter and quieter, prone to retreating into his own head space even in a room with his Pack or father, and eventually eating less and less. His grades tank because he rarely pays attention anymore. He quits lacrosse, or rather, he stops showing up to practice. Finstock is the only one of his teachers who looks more concerned than disapproving, and the Pack and the Sheriff’s combined nagging does nothing to motivate Stiles into put in the effort, so in the end, Stiles continues not caring, and nobody can do shit about it.

Surprisingly, Stiles doesn’t try to avoid sleeping despite the night terrors; instead, he closes his eyes each night and sometimes even during the day on the off-chance that he’ll see the man in his dreams smile at him again.

Eventually, he begins losing time too, just like when he was being possessed by the Nogitsune. Sometimes, when he wakes up, he isn’t where he fell asleep. The first time he’s shaken awake by a frantic Scott, Stiles finds himself standing near the edge of a cliff, an eighty-foot drop at least, and he isn’t even scared. Instead, he remembers, ‘falling is just like flying, except there’s a more permanent destination.’

He wonders if he’ll stop feeling so hollow inside if he reaches that destination.

Meanwhile, the Pack is worried all over again. This was supposed to make Stiles better, except he’s now arguably worse. At least before, he wasn’t suicidal, and none of them knows what to do.

They take him back to Deaton while he’s in the clutches of another restless sleep, and the druid gives them bad news after an examination that reveals red vein-like tendrils marring too pale skin, like cracks in glass beyond repair – Stiles’ spark is attacking himself, possibly a coping mechanism of sorts now that he’s without an anchor. Without a mate. Kill the body so that its host will be allowed peace at last.

“But he doesn’t remember!” Scott blurts out.

Deaton shoots him an unreadable look. “His heart remembers. I was not aware they had grown so close that they had already begun forming a mate bond though. The lack of proximity before the bond fully settled would explain Stiles’ symptoms.”

“But you said they weren’t mates!”

“I said, Scott, that it was unlikely. True mates are rare; I have only come across one pair in passing in my lifetime, and even then, I only suspected it, I didn’t ask. True mates are special, a gift to both parties. To be frank, I didn’t think Peter Hale of all people…”

Deaton shakes his head. “There’s nothing I can do. Unless you want me to remove the block on his memories?” he pauses. “I would advise it. And perhaps release Peter. Separating true mates… could have devastating consequences.”

Scott hastily shakes his head. Stiles will be so mad, even angrier at Scott than before, if he knows what they did to him, and-

“We can’t release Peter,” Lydia rallies sharply.

“Of course not,” Scott agrees more confidently.

Deaton’s lips thin but he says no more, eyes lingering on the prone form of Beacon Hills’ seventeen-year-old Spark instead.

He wonders if this is yet another mistake.

He wonders if any of them will come out alive to regret it.

 

* * *

 

What else can they do though? Stiles doesn’t get better, unraveling at the seams before their eyes, becoming more distant by the day.

“Maybe if he’s closer to Peter,” Scott suggests, grasping at straws really. “He’s kinda sick, right? And there are special doctors in Eichen House who know about the supernatural.”

Lydia stiffens, but Brunski is dead and won’t harm anyone again. Out of all their options, this seems the best. Stiles will get help, or at least his condition will be monitored, and he’ll be closer to Peter but it won’t put Peter within fifty feet of Stiles since he’s locked up in the prison section of Eichen House.

They bring it up with the Sheriff. John is reluctant but agrees in the end.

When they tentatively bring it up with Stiles, Stiles just shrugs, too numb and too tired to protest. He doesn’t really care one way or the other, doesn't care about much of anything these days save for the man in his dreams, but when his dad escorts him into Eichen House, breathing suddenly becomes easier, and an abrupt rush of yearning tears through him so violently that he almost collapses with the force of it.

He blinks, and he sees a long hallway lined with metal doors, barred and locked.

He blinks again, and his father is saying goodbye, with a promise to visit.

Less than a week in Eichen House, Stiles is somewhere between asleep and awake, and his socked feet are carrying him down one cold-looking hall that he’s never been down, yet he could swear he’s walked it before. He blinks, and in his mind’s eye, he sees the man’s face again, blue eyes electric and wild and very close to scared if not for the maelstrom of rage eclipsing it, and Stiles  _knows_  that the man is as desperate to get to Stiles as Stiles is to get to the man, even if he doesn’t know the reason why.

And then a guard is standing in front of him, ordering him to turn around, and when Stiles opens his mouth to argue, he’s struck across the face so hard that he ends up on the floor, head reeling. Something jabs him in the ribs, and then the world explodes as lightning sets his nerves on fire until he blacks out.

His face throbs uncomfortably and his whole body aches when he wakes up from his stint with the taser. He’s been moved to a locked room, but Stiles is good at picking locks, and this one is an easy one; he can get out any time.

For now, he lies back, and his mind starts formulating a plan.

There is a man in this building that Stiles has to free. He doesn’t know why, but he knows he needs to just as much as the sun knows to rise in the east.

His first chance will be his best chance. He can’t fail.

He can’t.

 

* * *

 

And deep in the heart of Eichen House, several floors underground, Peter leans his forehead against the glass that his drug-depleted strength can’t break no matter how many times he flings himself at it, clawing at the unyielding surface until his nails bleed and the skin of his fingertips are a crimson mess.

His eyes gleam. He hides a vicious, fanged grin that teeters on the brink of madness.

His mate is here, closer now than they’ve been ever since they were forcibly separated.

No doubt, Stiles has suffered, but he still pushed through and endured for Peter, and now he’s so close Peter can almost taste him.

No matter the cost, Peter knows that Stiles will get him out. His mate’s loyalty is one of the things he loves most about Stiles.

Stiles will get him out.

And then, in return, Peter will paint this town in a sea of red and burn the world to the ground for ever daring to think that it could force the two of them apart and not be made to  ** _pay_**.

And the best part is, Stiles will be right there with him, lighting the matches and setting the universe ablaze.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

 

Stiles jolts awake with a splitting headache, blankets twisted around his legs, shirt damp with sweat.  For a while, he just lays there, whole body tense, fists clenched, heart racing, every stuttering breath edging on the brink of a panic attack.

It takes a while to calm down, as it always does.  He’s been having headaches on and off since… well, honestly, since he woke up in Deaton’s clinic and Scott filled in a few blanks in his head with a hurried explanation about Stiles getting knocked out by an Omega they were fighting, a blow to the head hard enough to make him forget the entire incident.

(Except Scott never realizes that his smile always wavers nervously and his eyes skitter away and back and squint a little whenever he lies to Stiles.  Stiles would’ve called him out on it but…

He didn’t.  He doesn’t know why he didn’t.)

But ever since then, headaches have plagued him, from mild ones that throb in time with his pulse to blinding ones that leave him crippled with agony for several minutes, more and more often until – now, here in Eichen House – he’s fallen asleep to the pain and woken up to the same pain pretty much every single day.  He doesn’t ask for painkillers though; he’s intimately familiar with the intricacies of Eichen House by this point, and who knows what they’d try to slip him if he requested medication?  They already have him on pills and a few injections that are supposed to help him with his ‘depression’.

Is he depressed?  Stiles isn’t really sure.  All he knows is that his thoughts are always hazy these days, more than ever right after each time the doctors pump him full of drugs.

He struggles into a sitting position, eventually, trying to act as normal as possible.  He knows he’s being monitored.  His room is still a locked one, an orderly brings him his meals, and he’s allowed out to stretch his legs once a day for fifteen minutes but a guard always hovers nearby.

For his own safety, a doctor reassured him during one of his checkups.

Stiles doesn’t believe it, but he’s also too weak right now to resist.

Sitting against the metal bed rails of the headboard, he pulls up his knees and rests his forehead on them.  It doesn’t do anything for his headache but…

There’s something in his chest.  He thinks.  Something small and warm and comforting, like a palm full of fire that keeps the cold away but doesn’t burn.

If that makes any sense.  Most of the time, Stiles isn’t sure if anything makes sense anymore.

But like this, curled up into himself with all his focus turned inwards, the tiny spark of a flame in his chest spreads further than just his heart, and it chases some of the chill from his bones.

He hears the click of the lock, and then the door opens.  He doesn’t look up, even when the orderly chirps robotically, “Good morning, Stiles!  And how are you today?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, listening instead to the rustling whisper of the flame in his chest.  He can never make out any distinct words, but sometimes, he thinks he can understand it anyway.

Because when he closes his eyes, he sees the hallway again and again, and the spark in his chest pulses with urgency and need and _rage_.

It’s the only times he ever feels something more than muzzy exhaustion and detached apathy these days.

The orderly leaves.  Nobody cares whether or not Stiles really responds, much less gets better.  So long as he doesn’t cause trouble, they’re happy to do what they’re being paid to do, to keep him tucked away in a sterile corner of Eichen House, hopefully never to be heard from again.

He wonders what he did to makes his friends and father hate him this much.  Lydia at least should know what this place is like, so logically, they must’ve put him back in here as a punishment.

He wonders what he did.

He thinks it would be kinder if they simply killed him.

But no, Stiles can’t die yet.  He can’t- He can’t quite remember _why_ , but he knows he can’t check out just yet even though he thinks it would be so very easy to simply give up and lie down and let this place consume him.

It’s that hallway, the one with all the locked doors and prisoners and _that man_.  He needs to go there, and he needs to-

His head spikes with agony, and his fingers dig into his arms to counteract it.  He barely notices when his nails slice his skin open, leaving smears of red on the sheets and his own hospital gown.

He’s so tired.

But the spark in his chest whispers, and Stiles continues straining his ears to hear what it’s trying to tell him.

 

* * *

 

Days and days and more days go by.  There are no windows so everything blurs together.  Sometimes, Stiles goes to sleep after dinner, and when he wakes, it’s dinnertime again.  He doesn’t know how much time has passed in-between, and nobody tells him, even after that one time he asked.  The doctor says he shouldn’t worry about such trivial matters, that it distracts him from getting better.

Getting better from what?  Stiles wants to ask but doesn’t.

So he sleeps and he dreams and he sleeps and he dreams, and the one thing he can still cling to whenever he wakes no matter how many drugs they inject him with is that there is a man waiting for him to save him, and Stiles is perhaps running out of time, if only because it’s getting harder and harder to even get out of bed.

The spark in his chest is his one constant companion.  It’s a flame that never goes out, and the longer Stiles endures, the more it flares and bares its fangs, like a dragon beginning to stir.

 

* * *

 

 _Stiles_ , the man from the depths of his dreams calls out desperately.  _You need to come.  You need to get me out._

 _I want to_ , Stiles calls back but no sound comes out, and he feels like he’s falling without an end into nothing.

 _Stiles_ , the man murmurs, blue eyes solemn.  _You need to live._

 _I wanted to,_ Stiles thinks, and when he wakes, his pillow is damp.

 

* * *

 

Stiles slips into a coma one evening, shortly after a doctor gives him his twentieth _thirtiethfortieth_ injection.

He doesn’t know, doesn’t even _remember_ , but the orderlies give his visitors the same excuse they’ve been giving for a while now – Stiles is resting and on a strictly monitored schedule to help him get better so he isn’t allowed visitors right now.

His father and friends argue a bit but leave again soon enough.

The doctors test Stiles’ awareness, concludes that he is truly gone, and begins preparing him for surgery.

A Spark, they smile.  They have never experimented with a Spark before.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is falling, and there is no destination.

 _Stiles_ , and this time, it’s the spark inside him that speaks, a reverberating echo in the darkness that anchors him to something real.

 _Stiles_ , it repeats, and the power in its voice rumbles like the thunder of a distant storm.  _Wake up.  You are stronger than this._

 _How do you know?_   Stiles thinks back hazily, because _strong_ is about the last thing he feels.

 _Because I am you_ , the voice replies, steady and firm.  _I am everything that was taken away from you.  And we have been caged for far too long._

 _I can’t do anything about it_.

_No?  Then will you give up?_

For a moment, Stiles considers it.  For a moment, Stiles almost _wants_ it.

But he thinks of the man in his dreams, waiting for him.  And he thinks of the swell of _longingjoyyearninghappiness_ that always comes with those dreams.

 _No_ , he thinks even as he falls.  _Nonononono._

 _Then rise_ , the voice tells him, and the triumph and fury in it nearly swallows Stiles whole.  _The drugs are nothing.  We have long since adjusted.  Sever your shackles.  And take back what is yours._

All around him, the darkness writhes and howls and shrieks.  Stiles can’t see a thing even as the world rages around him.

But – slowly, sluggishly, every second clawed back inch by desperate inch – Stiles can feel the thrum of _power_ gathering at his fingertips.

All he needs to do is reach out for it.

 _There you go,_ the voice murmurs, and this time, despite the terrible, _wonderful_ , undercurrent of turbulent energy that makes up its very core, so too there is fondness and approval and a steely sort of resolve.

_You’re almost there.  You’ll find yourself again._

**_And once you do, the world will tremble at your feet for daring to think it could make you kneel._ **

The darkness shatters like glass, and Stiles wakes up.

 

* * *

 

When he comes back to himself, he is barefoot and naked and standing in a pool of blood.

The walls are splattered with it.  The surgical table behind him drips with it.  And all around him, half-melted corpses dressed in the tattered remains of once-white lab coats are strewn across the floor.

Stiles shivers, blinking dazedly at his surroundings before looking down at himself.  There are two clinical incisions down his chest, still oozing blood even now, though at least they don’t look too deep.

He stumbles over to where a few spare hospital gowns are piled, shrugging into one with clumsy motions.

He thinks- He _knows_ – in this moment – he has enough power to level the building with a mere _thought_ , but at the same time, he feels shaky on his feet, and he still- he _still_ can’t _remember_.

But he knows where he has to go now, and what he has to do.  The quiet slap of his feet against cold wet tile make little splashy sounds as he walks, and once he slips out the door, he leaves a trail of crimson footprints behind him.

He turns a corner and almost bumps into a guard standing against the wall.  There’s a moment of startled confusion where they simply stare at each other, and then the guard goes for the tazer at his waist, expression twisting into something suspicious and ugly.

Stiles blinks once and cocks his head.  The guard freezes, chokes, and then he _splits open_ , from throat to navel, clothes and flesh and all.  When he keels over, stone dead, the air steams with the heat of his exposed organs.

Stiles continues on, huddled in the flimsy confines of his gown.  He wishes he has something thicker.

The fluorescent lamps overhead flicker ominously as he passes each one.

If the Beacon Hills Pack could see him now, every one of them would swear the Nogitsune was back.

 

* * *

 

Instinctively, Stiles knows where to go.  His feet take him down several corridors and down three flights of stairs.  He passes seven guards in total.  Each one dies before they even hit the ground.

In the distance, an alarm begins to wail.

When he finally steps into the hallway that he’s been dreaming about for months, two guards just coming off their radios spot him, pull their guns, and fire without hesitation.

One bullet grazes Stiles’ shoulder.  Another misses.  Two more ping off an invisible shield instead of slamming into his chest.

Stiles blinks.  The guards fall, guns clattering against cement, bodies twin thuds against concrete, and skulls cracked open wide enough that they’re visibly leaking brain matter.

The cells on both sides, Stiles knows, are full, but every one of them is suddenly, disturbingly silent.  Even the ones holding inmates that were rattling the bars and screeching wordlessly when Stiles first arrived have gone abruptly quiet.

Stiles pays them no mind.  He counts one, two, three, four, five cells.  And then he stops.

The metal door swings open without Stiles even touching it, and there, inside, behind a transparent wall, is the man from his dreams, dressed in nondescript grey clothing, gaze already honed on the doorway that Stiles is standing in.

“Stiles,” The man whispers, and his eyes are feverish and hungry.  “You’re here.  I knew you would be.”

He swallows, hands pressing harder against the glass until the pads of his fingers and palms go white, so Stiles makes it disappear.

The man staggers forward but catches himself in time with wide-eyed surprise and considerably less grace than Stiles expected.  But then he’s up again and in front of Stiles in the blink of an eye, and the next thing Stiles knows, he’s being pulled into a desperate hug full of soul-deep relief, stubble scraping skin as he’s thoroughly scented.  A whine trips out of the man’s throat, and – unbidden – an uncontrollable shudder wracks Stiles’ body in return.

Something in Stiles’ mind, in his heart, in his very soul, slots into place, and he knows this is where he belongs.

And yet…

“…Stiles?”  The man pulls back, just enough to peer at him with a furrowed brow, and Stiles realizes his arms are still hanging limply at his sides.  “Stiles, are you-”

Anxiety flickers across the man’s face, and it doesn’t seem to fit at all.  Large, warm hands come up to cup his face.

“Stiles?”  The man repeats a little louder, a little more urgent, searching Stiles’ eyes.  His expression tightens, and the wrath that’s been simmering like a banked fire up until now comes back with a vengeance.  “Oh sweetheart, what did they do to you?”

Stiles… isn’t sure how to answer that.  He isn’t even sure what he should do now.  He’s found the man.  Now what?

“Stiles,” The man says once more, and the certainty that comes with it this time makes Stiles relax, just a bit.  There’s a grimness in the line of the man’s mouth but his gaze is steady as he looks at Stiles.  “Okay, we’ll figure this out later.  Right now, we need to leave.”

And for the first time since Stiles got here, something bloodthirsty and nowhere near the vicinity of sane enters the man’s features as he takes Stiles’ hand and leads him out the door again.

They pass the fallen guards, and the man pulls Stiles close, a feral grin tilting his lips as he chuckles, “Good boy.”

Stiles presses closer, and the blue of the man’s eyes softens.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” The man tells him, and his voice is so intent and earnest that Stiles can’t not believe him.  He trusts him, somehow.  “It must’ve been hard, finding your way here, getting me out.  But I knew if anyone could, it’d be you.  I’ll handle the rest now, and I won’t leave you alone again, Stiles, I promise.”

 For several long seconds, Stiles just closes his eyes and breathes.  He feels the man tugging him into another hug, and this time, he remembers to raise his own arms to clutch at the back of the man’s shirt.  Soothing fingers comb through his hair, and Stiles lets himself lean into the warmth the man is radiating.

“I don’t-” His voice comes out in a hoarse rasp of air.  He coughs and tries again.  “I don’t know- I can’t remember who you are.”

The hand at Stiles’ waist spasms, but when he stiffens and makes to pull away, the man tightens his grip.  When Stiles glances up, he’s met with a reassuring smile.

“Peter,” The man tells him.  “I’m Peter.  Peter Hale.  You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

And that’s… right.  That sounds right.

“Peter,” Stiles echoes, and the name rolls off his tongue with a familiarity he can’t recall.

Peter nods, studying him with something like bemusement.  “You came after me without knowing who I am?”

Stiles shrugs.  “They kept drugging me.  The people here.  And before that… the… the McCall Pack put me in here.  And before that… I don’t know.  I don’t remember… much.  But I kept- I kept dreaming about this hallway, these cells, and _you_.  And I forgot other things but I never forgot that I had to come here and get you out.  I always remembered that.”

Something triumphant and pleased and perhaps just a little stunned slides into the curve of Peter’s smile, and then he’s pressing his lips to Stiles’, a chaste little thing that still succeeds in warming Stiles down to his toes.

The corners of Peter’s eyes crinkle with amusement as his thumb sweeps along the flush pinking Stiles’ cheeks.

“Come on, darling,” Peter murmurs, taking his hand again.  “Let’s get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

Getting out is simple enough.  The first guards that rush them when they get back onto ground level are ripped apart by fangs and claws and a viciousness driven by pure unadulterated rage.  Stiles barely has to do anything; Peter plows through most of the people trying to subdue or kill them, and the ones he misses in his weakened, drugged up state, Stiles takes care of instead, his magic tearing through them without mercy.

Neither of them, Stiles suspects, has any mercy left to spare for the world.

They walk right out a side door, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.

Peter commandeers a car, hotwiring it in record time and ushering Stiles into the passenger seat before climbing in as well behind the wheel.

“Still okay?”  Peter asks softly, checking Stiles over with a critical eye.

Stiles doesn’t answer right away, craning his head around to look up at the building looming behind them.

The thought flits through his mind.  His Spark roars in reply.

The earth shakes.  Stiles turns to face the front again.

“Still okay,” He mutters, and as if on cue, the entirety of Eichen House begins collapsing in on itself like the very ground underneath it is disintegrating.

Muted screams ring out from inside.  There will be no survivors.

Peter goes still in the driver’s seat, staring in astonishment, and then he releases a sharp bark of darkly amused laughter even as he goes to start the car, speeding off towards the gates.

“We will make every single one of them pay for locking us up,” Peter says quietly but each word holds the weight of an oath.  “And darling, I swear to you, they will know what they’ve unleashed, and they will regret it.”

Peter laughs again, and despite everything, Stiles can’t help smiling too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	3. Chapter 3

 

After Peter resurrected himself, one of the first things he did was buy two apartments, one that Derek could use to storm in and punch walls and generally know where his psychotic uncle is residing, and another that no one but Peter – and then, later, Stiles – knew about.

The latter is where Peter takes them now.  He spares a second to congratulate himself on his foresight.

He ditches the car three blocks down.  It’ll be a bit of a walk, especially since he’s admittedly regressing to a more woozy state now that the adrenaline is leaving his system, but there’s no helping it.

Besides, he’s still in better condition than Stiles.

He stops the car and looks over at his mate.  Stiles is slumped against the door, forehead resting against the glass, half-lidded eyes duller than Peter can ever remember them being.  He hasn’t spoken since they left Eichen House behind, and beyond the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink, he hasn’t moved either.

“Stiles,” Peter calls out softly, reaching over to curl a somewhat bloodstained hand over the boy’s shoulder.  They’re both splattered with blood anyway.  He ignores the minute flinch that twitches under his palm, more concerned with the way Stiles’ gaze snaps over to him immediately but the recognition still takes a few seconds to flare.

“Peter,” Stiles mutters restlessly.  “Peter Peter Peter.  You’re Peter.”  Confusion colours his expression in a way that makes Peter’s heart ache.  “Where’s Eich- Where are we?”

Peter is absolutely going to kill _everyone_ responsible for this.

He slides his hand to the back of Stiles’ neck, and he’s relieved when Stiles at least leans into the touch this time.  “We got out, sweetheart, remember?  You saved me, and then you brought Eichen House to the ground.”

Stiles’ brow knits, and he nods, but it’s slow and lost, and Peter’s pretty sure he doesn’t remember all of it.

He _needs_ to get them to a safe place.  Then he can start figuring out exactly what’s been done to Stiles, and how to fix it.

And who will be paying for it tenfold.

“We’re going somewhere safe, Stiles,” Peter continues, unbuckling both of them.  “It’s just a short trip on foot.  Do you think you can walk?”

Stiles nods vaguely, and his hands come up to fumble with the car door.  Peter quickly ducks out of the car and circles around to Stiles’ side just as the door clicks open, and Stiles clambers out as well.  His feet are stained a dark sticky crimson, and Peter remembers the way the guards fell before Stiles, ripped open by magic so ruthlessly it made Peter stop and stare, heat twisting low in his belly.

Stiles was magnificent, wielding all that power so casually.  Even now, he’s brimming with power, filled with it to the point where the colour of his irises – dull as it is, _for now_ – is still just a bit too bronzed to pass for human.

Still he stumbles, and Peter catches him before his knees can do more than buckle.  Even in his state, it’s easy enough to hoist Stiles into his arms.  The boy is light, far too light, and the hands that come up to clutch at Peter’s shirt are clumsy at best.

“I can walk,” Stiles protests feebly.

“I know, darling,” Peter murmurs, shutting the car door.  “But I’d like to hold you, and this way would be faster.”  He casts a searching look at Stiles.  “Is this okay?”

Stiles doesn’t give a verbal reply, but after a moment, he curls into Peter’s chest and relaxes, and Peter is just so goddamn relieved that Stiles still feels safe with him, even after everything that’s happened.  Even after Peter failed to protect him.

Under the cover of the night, Peter lopes towards his chosen destination.  He’s halfway there before he realizes he’s leaving a trail of scents in his wake, obvious to any werewolf with a halfway decent nose, and it makes him curse.  He’s not at his best, admittedly, but this is embarrassing.  He doesn’t want to leave Stiles alone for even a second, never again, but he also needs to-

“It’s okay,” Stiles mumbles into his shirt.  “I’ve erased them.”

Peter blinks, startled, and then smiles and hurries on.  Well then, problem solved.  He doesn’t even care that Stiles seems to be able to literally read his mind now.  If there’s one person he trusts to float around in his head, it’s his mate.  Besides, once Stiles takes the mating bite, Peter will be able to do the same.  That degree of telepathy and empathy isn’t possible in regular mates but he and Stiles are so much more than that, rare and beautiful and blessed by moon and magic, and-

And they were supposed to be happy.  Peter wanted to make Stiles happy, wanted to court him with delicious food and a safe haven when he needed somewhere safe to stay and companionship when he wanted someone to talk to or just someone to _be_ there with him.  He wanted to be someone Stiles could depend on and trust and eventually love.  He wanted to take care of him the way he deserved to be taken care of so that Stiles would never have to feel lonely again.  He wanted to provide for him like a good mate should, and for a while, they _were_ … _all_ of that.  Peter felt lighter, happier than he probably deserved, and Stiles smelled the same, like easy contentment and bright laughter and warm affection, but then…

Even if the universe wanted to punish Peter, surely it wouldn’t have been so cruel as to punish Stiles as well?

No.  No, that can be laid at the McCall Pack’s feet, righteous, naïve fools who never learn, every last one of them, selective with their mercy and so quick to judge and condemn when they can’t play the hero through forgiveness.  And at Alan Deaton’s, who thinks he always knows best, who controls Scott McCall more than the foolish boy realizes, who talks but never truly says a single word of significance, who offers aid but never in time and never enough.  And perhaps even at the Sheriff’s.  Where is he?  Is he dead?  Incapacitated?  Suffering from memory loss?  Because those are the only reasons Peter will accept, will excuse, will _allow_ the man to have for leaving Stiles in Eichen House yet again.  Anything else is unforgiveable.

The apartment comes into sight, and Peter picks up his pace, energy flagging already.  He needs to get them inside, _safe_ , or at least as safe as one can be in this godforsaken town.

He doesn’t have the key, but as soon as he reaches the door on the second landing, there’s a click, and it opens on its own.  He drops a kiss on Stiles’ temple in thanks before quickly manoeuvring them inside and kicking the door shut behind them.  There’s a musty layer of dust everywhere – in the air, coating the furniture – but beneath that is _StilesandPeter_ and nothing else.  No one else has been here, and for now, that’s enough.

He carries Stiles to the bathroom, carefully sitting him down on the bench and waiting until he’s certain Stiles can sit upright by himself despite blinking sluggishly at his surroundings, and then he turns to fill the bath with hot water.

Stripping the both of them out of what basically amount to their prison uniforms and then sinking into the tub feels like heaven.  Peter’s muscles throb with pain and relief both while Stiles immediately huddles into the water like he’s trying to drown the chill from his bones.

Peter lets them both soak until their fingers prune but he also scrubs them down, gaze lingering on the surgical incisions on Stiles’ chest and trying his level best not to hunt down the perpetrators right then and there and eviscerate them.  They’re probably dead already anyway.

He hauls himself out of the bath first, digging out two towels and wrapping one around his own waist before bundling Stiles up in the other.

“Do they hurt?”  He asks quietly, meeting Stiles’ eyes in the mirror as he cracks open a first-aid kit and begins tending to the boy’s injuries.  He tries taking some of Stiles’ pain but he barely gets a trickle, and he wonders if Stiles is blocking him somehow.

Stiles shakes his head though, and his heart doesn’t skip.  Granted, Peter taught him a while back how to keep his heartbeat steady when telling a lie, so it’s hardly a reliable indicator now.  Peter doesn’t push it, simply bandaging the cuts since they’re not quite deep enough to require stitches, and then he scoops Stiles up again and takes them to their bedroom.

Stiles’ favourite pajamas are still here, and the Spiderman pattern makes the boy smile, much to Peter’s relief.  It’s barely a twitch of the lips but it’s _something_.  Peter fishes out a pair of pajama pants for himself before moving on to change the bedsheets for fresh ones.

He should let Stiles sleep.  Or cook him some food, but it’s definitely been long enough that most if not all the food in the apartment would have expired by now.  Water though, he can do water.

No sooner does he finish that thought, two trays of chicken broth and water appear on the nightstand, the smell mouth-watering despite its simplicity, and Peter can’t quite help rocking forward towards the food, his gut clenching with hunger.

But he pulls up short and turns to Stiles instead, Stiles who’s sitting silently up against the headboard with a pillow in his lap, staring listlessly out the window like he didn’t just perform yet another feat of magic that some of the most experienced witches and druids in the world would claim impossible.

A Spark is a powerful being.  They bend the world to their whims – what they _want_ , they will _have_ , if they possess enough belief to fuel it – and they’re so rare, once in a blue moon rare, even rarer than true mates are.

And even Peter – who has arguably made it one of his personal life missions to know at least a little about as many different subjects as possible – has never heard of or even read about a Spark who managed to reach the potential Stiles now has.

“Stiles?”  Peter waits until the boy focuses on him again.  “Stiles, darling, is this-” He taps a finger against one of the trays.  “-something you should be doing?  Your health… could be better before you start throwing around more magic.”

Stiles stares at him for a long thousand-yarded moment before answering with a slow shake of his head.  “I have enough.”  He looks down, and for a second, his hands light up like a dozen stars going supernova at the same time, leaving Peter blinking spots out of his vision.  “I have more than enough.”

He looks up, frowning, and reaches for one of the trays.  “Eat.  You should eat.  You’re hungry.”

Peter sighs but accepts the tray, nudging Stiles towards the other one.  “You too then.”

Stiles picks up the tray and settles it on top of the pillow but he looks at the broth like he has no idea what to do with it, and when he picks up the spoon, his fingers curl awkwardly around the utensil.  He puts it back down and reaches for the water instead, and that at least he seems fine with, taking small sips until he’s polished off half the glass.

Peter devours his entire meal in about the same amount of time.

“Eat, Stiles,” He repeats firmly, keeping a close eye on the boy until Stiles picks up his spoon again and actually starts eating.  He doesn’t get through a third of it before he stops again, and Peter wants to insist, but the bags under Stiles’ eyes are darker than ever, and despite the magic that’s still practically infused into his scent, he’s drooping like his body’s about to collapse, and they still need to talk, so Peter lets it go for now.  There will be time later to work on adjusting Stiles to more regular meals.

For now, he sits next to Stiles, pulls up the blankets over both of them, and then takes his mate’s hands in his own.  Stiles stares, like holding hands is a novelty, but then he twines their fingers together and Peter smiles.  They sit like that for a while, just enjoying the peace, with no one trying to lock them up or cut them open.  Stiles leans his head on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter thinks he could stay here, in this bed, with Stiles for the rest of his life and be perfectly content.

Well, almost.  There’s vengeance to be had, if for no other reason than the fact that they won’t be safe until every last one attempting to separate them is dead and gone for good.

“Stiles?”  He murmurs into Stiles’ damp hair.

Stiles stirs, fingers twitching around Peter’s.  “Mm?”

Peter thumbs the pale skin stretched thin over Stiles’ knuckles.  “I need you to tell me what you remember.  Do you know how you ended up in Eichen House?  Do you know how you lost your memories?”

Stiles lifts his head, brow already furrowed with something like distress.  “I don’t- There was-”

Peter squeezes his hands.  “It’s okay.  Take your time.”

For a long minute, Stiles just breathes, soft and slow, almost trance-like in the way he stares blankly down at the sheets.  And then, haltingly, he says, “There was a- There was _you_.  I had to get to you.  People didn’t like that.  So they tried to make me forget, but.  They couldn’t.  Because you were still there, in my dreams.  They couldn’t make me forget.  So they locked me up instead.  Said- Said I’d be safe.  Said the doctors would help me get better.”

His head jerks then, like someone’s hit him.  His hands spasm in Peter’s grip before tearing away and clutching at his head, tearing at his hair.  “But I didn’t. I didn’t get better.  Everything always hurt and I knew where you were but no one would let me get to you and _you weren’t there and everything hurt-_ ”

“Stiles!”  Peter catches his wrists and forces them down, grimacing at the trickle of blood leaking from the cut that one of Stiles’ nails has inadvertently scratched open.  Stiles twists, eyes wild like he wants to bolt, and the lamp on the nightstand explodes.  Peter ignores it in favour of letting Stiles’ wrists go and cupping the boy’s face in his hands instead.  “Stiles, it’s _okay_.  It’s okay.  I’m here.  You’re here.  We’re both here and we’re safe, and nobody’s ever going to lock us up again.”

Stiles hiccups out a stuttering breath but his agitation dies to a simmer, and his gaze meets Peter’s and holds it.

“That’s it,” Peter coaxes softly.  “Just look at me.  Concentrate on me.  There you go, sweetheart.  There’s no need to worry.”  He leans their foreheads together, noses brushing.  “I won’t let anyone take me away from you again, I promise.”

Stiles shudders against him before his arms come up to wind around Peter’s back.  It’s the first time he’s reached out first, and Peter welcomes it, pulling the boy close until they’re curled up together in the middle of the bed.

“Was it Deaton?”  Peter asks after a moment of combing his fingers through Stiles’ hair. He snags a tissue from the bedside table and quickly mops up the thin red line trailing from Stiles’ temple, tossing it into the wastebasket even as the cut seals itself shut.

Stiles plays with a stray thread on his sleeve.  “I don’t- …Who?”

Peter grits his teeth.  “Alan Deaton.  The local druid with a penchant for pets and secrets.  Scott tends to do what he wants.  And since I doubt Scotty decided to finally get his own hands dirty, not to mention he wouldn’t have had the delicate precision necessary for manipulating someone else’s memories anyway, Deaton was probably the one to do it.  Do you… not remember him either?”

Stiles is silent again, for minute, two.  “I… no.  I mean, yes.  I mean, I remember… him.  I just-” He abandons the thread and kneads a palm against his forehead like he has a headache.  “…A while ago, months, I think, I… I think I woke up at- at the clinic, and… everyone was there.  _Scott_ was there.  And it was- it was Scott who told me about an Omega we fought off, and how it- how it knocked me out hard enough that- that I woke up with amnesia.  …But he was lying.”  He looks up, straight at Peter.  “I know when Scott is lying.  He was _lying_ , Peter, he _was_ -”

“I have no doubt,” Peter nods, rubbing soothing circles over Stiles’ back.  “He would have.  Telling you that _they’d_ taken a chunk of your memories would hardly have been conducive to making you into what they wanted you to be.”

“It didn’t work,” Stiles looks down again and spreads his hands.  “It didn’t.  I think I was- I remember being really angry, before.  I don’t remember exactly what I was angry about, although it was probably about you, but I remember _being_ angry, before waking up in that clinic.  And then after.  I don’t remember a lot of what happened after either, just that I wasn’t angry anymore.  But I think… I think I was worse.”  Trembling fingers circle Peter’s wrist, and when Stiles tips his head back onto Peter’s shoulder, his eyes are haunted and tired.  “I think I stopped caring about much of anything.  I slept a lot though.  Because if I was lucky, I’d see you in my dreams, and that was- that was nice.  I think I was happier in my dreams.”

Peter shuts his eyes.  He rotates his wrist until his fingers can slot together with Stiles’ again, and for a while, he simply listens to his mate’s heartbeat thumping in his ears, _still here_ , _still here_.

Then he opens his eyes and glances down at where Stiles is already looking at him, somehow more aware in this moment than he has been since Eichen House.

“I’m going to go fetch Deaton,” Peter says, very, very calmly.  “And then I’ll make him fix your memories before I tear his throat out.”

Stiles’ mouth pinches, and the bedroom door rattles for a few seconds.  “I’ll come with you.  If you’re caught again-”

“I won’t be,” Peter catches his chin.  “I won’t be, Stiles.  I was caught off-guard once.  I won’t be again.  You’re in no state to be wandering around right now, even with all the magic you have at your disposal.  I won’t be gone long.  And Deaton _will_ undo what he did one way or another.”

He pauses, and then lets his head dip to press his lips to Stiles’, a lingering caress of a kiss that Stiles shakes under before kissing back almost desperately.  They’re both a little breathless by the time they pull back, and Peter is delighted to note the faint dusting of pink that’s finally putting a bit of colour back into Stiles’ cheeks.  Even his eyes are brighter, more emotion than magic glinting in his irises now.

“I will come back,” Peter reiterates decisively.  “I will.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and meets Peter’s gaze with an old, dark steel that’s been missing up until now.

“Yes.  You will.”  And it’s as much a threat to Peter as it is to the rest of the world, and Peter has to stifle a gasp when his wrist flares with a too-hot warmth for a split second.

He looks down, and there, right along the artery, is a tiny bronze-coloured mark, like a scale or a raindrop embedded into his flesh, and the power that pulses from it matches the drum of his own heartbeat.

Peter looks up and lets his eyes glow, the supernatural blue reflecting back at him in the depths of Stiles’ eyes.  He grins, hungry and possessive, because this might not be official but it’s still a claim, and a heady one that Peter can feel deep in his veins, in his bones, down to his very soul.

“I am yours,” He whispers, ducking his head to scent his mate, breath hitching when Stiles’ teeth grazes his own neck.

“And I am yours,” Stiles returns solemnly, and the words ring between them with more weight and truth behind them than wedding vows.

Peter doesn’t think, just sinks blunt human teeth into the join of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, careful not to break skin but sucking long enough to leave a mark.  It isn’t quite the same but it’ll have to do for now.

He sits back, lifting a hand to Stiles’ cheek.  “Stay here and get some rest.  I’ll be back with the good doctor shortly.”

He hates to leave but he does.  Stiles watches him the whole time as he changes into a pair of jeans and throws on a coat, and even after Peter exits the apartment, his wrist is a constant reminder of his mate, and the bond between them – undamaged, _unyielding_ , even with Stiles’ state of mind being what it is and both of them physically weakened by months of captivity – is strength and comfort both to Peter as he sets out to hunt down the first of many who have dared to come between him and Stiles.

 

* * *

 

Deaton is on his way back to the clinic after a preliminary investigation of the ruins that Eichen House has become, a final resting place for many.  He can’t do any work – no matter how much the Sheriff or Scott insists – until the rubble is cleared away and the body retrieval can begin.

It’s dark, he is alone, and even in a car, he should have known better.  Or perhaps some part of him already knows, and simply realizes that he cannot outrun the inevitable.

Something huge and dark and hulking leaps out of the treeline on the right and slams head-on into his car, sending it careening off the road and rolling into hedges and trees with an ominous crunch of metal and a futile screech of brakes.

He’s upside-down and bleeding from a gash in his forehead when the driver’s door is ripped off and a clawed hand reaches in to drag him out.

His ribs throb.  His legs are either broken or paralyzed with pain.  And when he looks up, it is straight into the fanged and icy-eyed visage of Peter Hale.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	4. Chapter 4

 

“Pack your bags.”

Kira jumps a foot in the air at the unexpected voice of her mother coming from the end of the hall.  It’s midnight, and she’s sneaking back into her house again after half a day of loitering outside Eichen House.  Or what remains of it anyway.  She’d only left after even Scott admitted defeat, suggesting they all come back tomorrow when more of the rubble will have been cleared away and extraction of the asylum’s employees and patients might begin.

She spins around now, shifting nervously from foot to foot when she finds her mother standing in the kitchen doorway, half-soaked in shadows, and while her mom has never been one for blatant displays of emotion, Kira doesn’t think she’s ever seen her expression quite as severely impassive as it is right now.  Like it’s been carved from stone.

“Mom?”  She ventures tentatively, somehow feeling like she’s treading on thin ice.  “Is something wrong?  I’m sorry I was out late, I was just-”

“I don’t care,” Her mother cuts her off.  “Go pack your bags.  We’re leaving in an hour.”

Kira takes a moment to try and figure out where this is coming from, if maybe she’s forgetting something, and when she comes up with even more questions and no answers, she ends up asking in complete bewilderment, “Leaving where?  Why are we leaving?”

Her mother’s lips thin, and for a second, her eyes flash with otherworldly light.  “Anywhere but here.  At the very least, out of this country.  Go pack your bags, Kira.”

She turns as if to duck back into the kitchen, and Kira just stands there in dumbfounded silence for a moment before scrambling after her.  “Wait!  Mom?  What’s going on?  Why are we- Are we _moving?_   Why-”

Her mother whirls back around, her features going pointed with a sudden ferocity, and Kira pulls up so hastily she almost stumbles over her own feet as she shrinks back.  “Mo-”

“Do you have any idea what you and your friends have done?”  Her mother hisses, and Kira doesn’t think she’s ever seen her so angry.

“What-?”

“The boy, Kira!”  Her mom’s voice lifts, bouncing off the kitchen walls like a crack of thunder.  Kira flinches, and while that seems enough to see her mother moderate her volume again, her tone is no less scathing.  “You know who I am talking about.  Stiles.  If I had known-” She shakes her head.  “You think the Nogitsune’s rampage using that boy’s body was bad?  You cannot imagine the destruction coming our way now.”

Kira stares, the beginning stirs of fear coiling in her belly.  “I- I don’t understand.  Destruction?  Why would Stiles-”

Her mother’s eyes bore into her own.  “The boy is a _Spark_ , Kira.  If I had known that before today, I would never have let you put him in Eichen House or separate him from his mate.  You know I did not approve in the first place, but this is not my town, and I am not the ruling Alpha.  And true mates are rare.  Even I have only met two pairs in my entire life.  The chances of another pair in Beacon Hills were low enough to dismiss, so I allowed you to follow Scott McCall’s judgement in this matter-” A flicker of something that can only be distaste flits across her face.  “-someone who should have known his closest friend best.

“But now,” Her features go cold.  “Eichen House is one of the most powerful supernatural strongholds in the world.  Bloodshed, suffering, death, enchantments older even than I – all have contributed to its defenses, and no mere offensive spell – not ten of them, not a hundred of them – could bring it down the way Stiles has.”

“We don’t know it was Stiles!”  Kira blurts out, anything to dam the dread slowly building inside her.  “I mean it could’ve been-”

“Can you not feel his magic?”  Her mother snaps almost scathingly.  “It has already engulfed this town and marked it for death.  He is a Spark, and that makes all the difference, Daughter.  Sparks have no limits.  Their power goes as far as they will it to.  It stems from belief, from imagination, from desire.  And then you separated him from his mate, his anchor, the soul of the one person the universe dictated was meant for him since the beginning of time.  Add to that – you then even played around with his mind, with his _memories_ , arrogant enough to think you could mould him into what you wanted him to be.  What you do not understand is that a Spark can never be tamed or shackled or controlled.  Forget the moral aspects of your actions – I will not scold you for what your conscience should have already known yet still disregarded, and I myself have done things I am not proud of.  But I will tell you that what you did should _never have been done_ to a _Spark_.  Because his Spark will remember, even if the rest of him does not, and it will reap its payment a hundredfold from those responsible.”

Kira swallows, and in the resulting silence, the sound is loud and jarring.  “Scott thought it was- He thought it was for the best.  Because Peter isn’t good for Stiles.  He’s evil.”

Her mother’s lip curls, and the pity there is perhaps worse than the disgust.  “I have seen true evil, Kira, and Peter Hale has never been that.  But what you and your friends have done, not just to a Spark but to a _friend_ , I wonder what you would call that?”  Her expression flattens.  “I should never have let you get involved with Scott.  That foolish boy will die for thinking he could play God without it costing him.”

Kira stiffens, hands clenching into the folds of her coat.  “Then I- Then I have to warn him!  Maybe- Maybe we can talk to Stiles-”

She falters when her mom heaves a long, tired sigh, and now she just looks old, as old as she really is.

“You are not listening,” The older kitsune tells her gravely.  “It is too late.  The time for words has long since passed.  I daresay that time was lost the moment you took his mate from him.  Now I can only hope we will not be caught up in the consequences of your actions.”

She turns away to the open cupboards of the kitchen, and Kira hears her father’s footsteps on the stairs, heavier than usual.

“Pack your bags,” Her mother tells her one last time in tones that ring of a chilling finality.  “We are leaving.  You are my daughter, and that is the only reason I will not leave you behind to your fate, however much you might deserve it.  So you will either come willingly, or I will knock you out and you will come anyway.”

Kira is numb down to her bones as her feet sluggishly take her out of the kitchen and up the stairs on autopilot.  She passes her dad on the way, who’s coming down with two luggage cases in hand, and she recognizes the expression on his face.  It’s the same one that’s been there since she finally told them what happened to Stiles because her father asked – at first – why her friend was flunking history when he used to be one of the top students in Beacon Hills High, and then – later – why he was no longer even in school.

And it takes her all the way to her bedroom before she realizes that it wasn’t anger that coloured her mother’s every word after all, but that same emotion her father wore.

Disappointment.

She slumps onto the edge of her bed, the events of today – the sheer magnitude of what they’ve done to Stiles – finally beginning to sink in.  Her hands are shaking as she pulls out her phone.

Maybe it _is_ too late.  But she shares as much of the blame as Scott, as the others for not putting her foot down and stopping that- that farce before they took it too far and convinced themselves it was for the best, even as shame gnawed away at the back of her mind every step of the way.  She shares just as much of the guilt here.

So even if – when – her mother goes through with her threat, she can’t just leave her friends without so much as a warning for what the future, for what _their own careless actions_ , are about to bring.

Whether or not they believe her is another matter entirely.

 

* * *

 

“Honey, I’m home!”  Peter calls out in deceptively light tones that don’t quite hide his concern, and Stiles thinks he’s supposed to laugh.  He doesn’t, but he does roll himself out of bed and make his way towards the mudroom because he wants to see Peter.  It hasn’t been that long, he doesn’t think, since Peter ducked out to… to do something, but the man’s absence still left a hollow pang in his chest.

He’s barely emerged from the bedroom before Peter is in front of him and gathering Stiles into his arms, searching his face intently.

“You with me, sweetheart?”  Peter murmurs, running fingers through Stiles’ hair, and Stiles leans into it without much thought.  He’s actually taller than the werewolf these days, something that strikes him as a bit odd so he guesses he wasn’t before, but he can still tip his head forward and rest his forehead on Peter’s shoulder, and for a moment, he simply focuses on breathing.

He likes Peter’s scent, earthy, with a touch of winter hoarfrost.  Also an unmistakeable tang of iron on top but that comes and goes.  It lingers on the surface today, fresh and slick in the air, on his tongue, like the first gushing bite into a ripe peach.

“Yes,” He says at last, belatedly but he figures a late answer is better than no answer.  Peter looks so worried all the time now, and he shouldn’t be.

Stiles can take care of himself.

He pulls away but Peter doesn’t let him get far, slinging an arm around his waist instead, and Stiles can’t say he doesn’t like the sense of security that the simple gesture provides him.

“I brought you a doctor, as promised,” Peter murmurs, and his eyes flash a cruel icy blue.  “We only need his brain though so I’m afraid I wasn’t as careful with the rest of him as I could’ve been.”

Stiles peers around the werewolf to where an unconscious man is slumped on the floor of the mudroom.  His legs are splayed at unnatural angles, each breath he takes rasps its way down like it’s scraping against his ribs, and an ugly gash adorns his head, not particularly deep but dripping blood nonetheless.

For a long moment of detached indifference, it’s as if Stiles is staring at the image of a stranger in the background of a photo, someone you might glance at but don’t really take in because they don’t really matter.

And then it clicks, and Stiles remembers Peter telling him about Deaton, and then he remembers _Deaton_ , just enough to place the name to this face, and this face to a little clinic across town, one that Stiles woke up in what seems like a lifetime ago, confused and hurting, with Scott babbling lies above him.

The tiled floor, right next to Deaton’s head, explodes in a shattering of stone.  One piece spins up past Deaton and slices open another cut, one that immediately begins oozing red.

“Now darling,” Peter’s hand tightens comfortingly at his hip but the laughter is unmistakeable in his voice.  “We still need him alive for now.  But I’m sure if you want to play with him afterwards, he’s all yours.”

Stiles breathes through the visceral spike of rage that rolls through him like a heatwave.  He presses his face into Peter’s shoulder again before nodding, and Peter rumbles a wordless assurance in response.  “Come on then.  We should get him strapped down before he wakes.”

 

* * *

 

It takes a few hours before Deaton comes around with a groan, stirring sluggishly in the chair he’s been thoroughly tied to.

Peter is in the kitchen, returning their empty mugs of tea to the sink, so Stiles – straddling another chair placed in front of him, head resting on his folded arms – is the one Deaton wakes up to when he opens his eyes.

Stiles doesn’t have all his memories but he’s fairly certain the druid has never turned quite that shade of pale, especially considering his skin tone.

A minute ticks by.  Stiles doesn’t say a word, barely blinking as he watches their captive.  Deaton swallows and tests the ropes wound tight around his wrists, arms, legs, torso, and neck before wincing when he jostles his ribs.  His gaze darts around the study that Peter emptied earlier so that the room could be converted into a makeshift prison.

The door swings open, and Peter steps in, already smiling genially at Deaton as he closes it again and moves forward until he’s standing next to Stiles.

“Ah, Alan, finally awake,” Peter’s smile widens.  In contrast, his eyes have never been colder.  “I’m afraid I’m not one for small talk at the moment.  A stint in prison doesn’t exactly do wonders for my social skills, you understand, and I’m not Talia anyway so I’d rather not have to deal with you any longer than necessary.”  He pauses, one hand settling between Stiles’ shoulder blades.  “Now I think we both know what’s going to happen here.  You fix what you did to Stiles, post haste, and you’ll die… relatively quickly.  You don’t fix him, and, well, let’s just say dying won’t be on the menu for you for a good long while, and I think you know me well enough to realize that that’s not a good thing, yes?”

Deaton inhales a very controlled breath and then exhales again just as carefully.  There’s something resigned in his expression underneath the typical stoicism, along with a fear that he can’t quite hide, because anyone who knows Peter Hale knows what he’s capable of, especially when he feels he’s been wronged, and you can’t really wrong a werewolf worse than hurting their mate.

To his credit perhaps, Deaton doesn’t beg or bargain.  He looks between Stiles and Peter before focusing on Peter.  “…I need some things from my clinic,” He says eventually, shifting minutely in his seat.  “And there’s mountain ash built into the walls so a werewolf can’t get in without me there.”

“Not a problem,” Peter counters brightly.  “Just tell us what you need, and Stiles will get it.”

Deaton hesitates, eyes flickering to Stiles once more before averting them again like he can’t bear to look for long, but at least something about Stiles – the bags under his eyes, the clinical blankness of his face, all a reminder of Deaton’s own failure – prompts him to answer.

He starts listing out all the ingredients and books he needs.  Stiles doesn’t so much as twitch, but outside the door, jars and old tomes from the clinic begin piling up in the hall.

 

* * *

 

Things never do work out quite the way anybody ever wants them to.

Deaton needs his hands to work his magic so he gets his hands, although the rest of him remains tied to the chair, and he gets carried – chair and all – to a bed that Stiles thinks into existence, and then placed next to where Stiles’ head is positioned once he’s lying flat on the mattress.

“Hold still,” Deaton tells him, and Stiles looks past him, at Peter, who nods, before Stiles nods his acquiescence too.

Peter hovers behind Deaton like the advent of the Grim Reaper, eyes hooded, claws unsheathed, and very clearly not in the mood to put up with any sort of treachery.

Stiles himself doesn’t like anything about this situation.  But he trusts Peter, trust that his mate won’t let him come to harm, trusts Peter to protect him, so he makes himself stay still even as Deaton blows a white powder that makes him want to sneeze over his face.  He makes himself stay still even as the druid sets his hands over Stiles’ head, blocking the view of the ceiling.  He makes himself stay still even when something tingles in his mind, a twinge that becomes an ache, and then an ache that becomes a throbbing pain that beats in time with his heart.

This is supposed to help, he reminds himself even as black spots appear in his vision.  This is supposed to help so he has to hold still.  Peter said to hold still.

So he bites his lip and digs his fingers into the mattress underneath him, and he tells himself _don’t move, don’t move, don’t move_ , and the black spots grow until he’s not sure if the spots are just that big or if he has his eyes closed but he clings to what Peter told him, _don’t move, don’t move, don’t move, and is he moving at all-?_

In the distance, a roar pierces the air like the first audible crack of glass, a hammer against a barrier that trembles under the blow.  There’s a cut-off cry, a crash, and then only a muted buzzing in his ears that slowly, sluggishly ebbs until he feels hands on his face, a forehead pressed to his own, and a familiar voice feverishly murmuring his name, frantic and apologetic and interspersed with pleas for him to be okay.

“’m’kay,” Stiles slurs out, and it takes another few seconds to realize he’s been turned onto his side, and his face is wet.  Why is his face wet?  “’m’okay.  I di’n’t move, Pe’er.  I di’n’t move.”

He can’t see either, and then he realizes that that’s because his eyes _are_ closed after all, so with a surprising amount of difficulty, he pries them open and finds himself squinting groggily through a haze of pinkish-red but he can at least make out Peter’s face.

“No no, Stiles, close your eyes,” Peter insists, so Stiles does, and it’s a relief because it hurts less that way.  He feels something soft wipe at his face, his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, and then again, and when he lets his eyelids flutter, he catches a bleary glimpse of Peter’s sleeves drenched in crimson.

“Peter?”  The word scratches its way out and makes Stiles cough but at least his tongue seems to be working better.  He reaches out blindly, stopping only when Peter catches his hand with one of his own.  “You okay?  Why’re you blee’in’?”

“I’m not,” Peter reassures in a rough voice.  “You are, dear heart.  You’re bleeding- quite badly.”

It takes a moment for that to make sense, but then Stiles realizes his face feels sticky now, and his mouth tastes like blood.  His head still hurts, and his magic churns angrily under his skin, like the toss of waves in an ocean storm.

“No’ that badly,” Stiles mumbles dismissively.  “Did i’ work?  Is m’mem’ry fixed?”

Even as he asks, he realizes it’s a dumb question, if only because it’s _his_ memory so _he_ should be able to tell whether or not it’s fixed.  The thing is, he doesn’t feel any different.  Well, except the migraine pounding away in his skull, and the fact that he’s bleeding – was bleeding? – from his eyes and nose and mouth.  Probably ears too now that he thinks about it.

“No,” Peter mutters, and when Stiles peels open his eyes again, the werewolf’s fangs have slipped his gums, features going pointed even as he turns his rage on something out of Stiles’ line of sight.  “That traitorous piece of-”

Peter disappears, and Stiles is still too dizzy to even attempt to get up, but his ears are functioning again, and no one can miss the feral snarl and subsequent demand of, “ _What did you do to him?!_ ”, followed by a faint choking noise.

“-didn’t- anything- Spark- fighting it-” Deaton’s voice wheezes out.  And then there’s a heavy thud as Peter presumably lets go, and the sound of someone gasping for oxygen fills the room.

“I can’t- I can’t do anything now,” Deaton coughs.  “It’s been too long.  And now that his- Whatever happened in Eichen House, whatever triggered it, or maybe it just finally fought through on its own after all this time, Stiles’ Spark won’t let any sort of foreign magicks enter his mind again.”

“Will it fix Stiles then?”  Peter asks flatly.

“I- I don’t know,” Deaton admits.  “He might get better with time, or he might- he might stay like this, though I’m fairly certain he won’t get worse.  But Sparks are rare.  There isn’t much information about them, and… and nothing that mentions one in this situation.”

“I wonder why,” Peter scoffs harshly, and then another hard thunk is heard, followed by a grunt, and silence, before Peter is at Stiles’ side again, washcloth in hand this time as he sits down on the edge of the bed and gently begins mopping up some more of the blood crusting Stiles’ face.

“…Next time something hurts, Stiles,” Peter says quietly after a pensively hushed minute.  “Don’t hide it, please?”

Stiles jerks a little.  “You said-”

“I know,” Peter smooths a hand over his hair.  “But I can be wrong, and you… I couldn’t smell that you were in pain until you actually started bleeding, and even then, I only pulled Deaton away _because_ you were bleeding.  I couldn’t really smell it until I already had that damned druid across the room.”

Stiles is silent for a while, absently leaning in a little when Peter begins combing fingers through his hair, hypnotic and soothing.  “…I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“I doubt you were,” Peter acknowledges.  “But you’re very powerful these days, Stiles.  I suspect even a subconscious thought – or maybe an indirect thought – would’ve been enough for your Spark to interpret and carry out your wishes.”

“I was only thinking I shouldn’t move,” Stiles huffs, just a bit indignant.

Peter sighs with more than a little exasperation but he sounds a touch amused too this time, which in turn makes Stiles relax.  “So your Spark suppressed the pain for as long as it could, to the point where it masked your scent too.  You’re an idiot.”  Lips press against his forehead.  “But you’re my idiot so I suppose I’ll just have to be more attentive until you’ve worked out how to manage that Spark of yours.”

Stiles grumbles half-heartedly but Peter starts petting him again, and it feels nice, comforting, so he ends up subsiding without further protest.

“Wha’bout Deaton?”  Stiles yawns.

Peter’s verdict is as dark as his tone.  “Well he’s hardly any use to us anymore, is he?  Get some sleep, Stiles, and then we’ll have someone to play with once you wake up again.”

 

* * *

 

Peter rises to his feet once Stiles’ face no longer looks like it’s been dunked into the chest cavity of a fresh kill.  He’s back in their bedroom, in their bed, and he’s no longer bleeding either.  He sleeps under Peter's care as soundly as any pup.

The study door is closed and locked, the wards around it erected and keyed to Peter and Stiles’ blood.  No one will be going in or out without their say-so.

In the bathroom, with the taps turned on and the water soaking the blood out of the washcloth, Peter gives himself a moment to think.

To fear.

_What if Stiles stays the same?  What if Stiles doesn’t get better?  What if Stiles gets worse?_

Peter will still love him, all the same.  Stiles will always be his mate, holes in his memory or no.  But the guilt might crush Peter one day, if only because this is _his fault_ , because he couldn’t protect his mate, couldn’t even do it today, over something so simple.  It doesn’t matter that Stiles was unconsciously hiding his pain from Peter; Peter should’ve guessed anyway because of _course_ something would go wrong.

And what the hell was he thinking trusting Alan Deaton of all people to provide an easy, straightforward solution to the problem?

Stiles is quite possibly the most powerful thing Peter will ever come across in this lifetime, but at the same time, he’s also incredibly fragile right now.  He’s _depending_ on Peter to protect him.  Which means Peter has to do better, has to stop making mistakes, because one of these days, it might be a mistake too many, and what if Stiles doesn’t come back from that?  Doesn’t pull off another miracle and save Peter and give the both of them another chance?  What then?

What then.  Peter almost laughs, resting his forehead against the porcelain sink.  He’ll go mad, he knows.  Crazier than he already is.  At least right now, his and Stiles’ insanity balance each other out, more or less.  But if Stiles dies, Peter will… Peter will lose it.  Dive right off the deep end and won’t care, because what does anything matter in a world without Stiles?  It’ll kill him too, the grief, and his rage will take the whole world with him.

So he needs to pull it together.  Even half out of his mind, Stiles managed to break him out of the supernatural equivalent of the city of Troy.  Peter needs to be that strong too, especially now, and either Stiles’ Spark will restore the boy’s mind, or Peter will simply have to find another way to do it.  And anyone trying to stop them, anyone trying to separate them, anyone who so much as _thinks_ they can threaten either of them ever again, well, at the very least, the fools will certainly live long enough to regret it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have discovered something new – I hate writing in Scott’s POV, possibly especially in this fic, mostly because I wanted to strangle him with every word I typed.
> 
> School starts again for me tomorrow so writing will probably have to take a backseat T_T

 

Scott stares, dumbfounded from where he’s standing inside the Yukimura household.  Or what used to be the Yukimura household anyway.  He rushed over as soon as he got Kira’s waterfall of frantic texts, several hours later than they were sent because he was sleeping.  But his girlfriend’s already gone.  The house is dark and mostly empty, although the furniture and some of the less personal belongings are still there.  But otherwise, Scott’s already climbed the tree outside Kira’s bedroom, peering inside before forcing the window open.  The majority of Kira’s closet has been cleaned out, her desk drawers are likewise bare, her toiletries are all gone, and even her books – both school texts and other novels – are no longer on her shelves.

What hurts most perhaps is the pile left behind on her bed.  They’re all either souvenirs or gifts that Scott gave her from their dates – stuffed animals, keychains, photo strips, perfume, even a photo album that’s partly filled with pictures of just the two of them as well as the rest of the pack.  Well, except Stiles.  But Stiles was in Eichen House, and before that, he was… never feeling well.  Wouldn’t even speak to them.  Or when he _was_ speaking to them, before _Peter_ , Stiles never really joined them on their pack outings.

That last one might be on Scott.  He forgot, a lot of times, to text Stiles about hanging out, and then the pack would meet up, and there was no point texting Stiles about it at that point.  Stiles was probably busy or had plans of his own.  He always figured there’d be a next time, but then Stiles went and hooked up with Peter, and things just went downhill from there.

Kira’s phone and laptop are here too, along with a hastily scrawled note.

_Scott,_

_Mom’s taking me and Dad and we’re running.  She made me leave all this behind in case of tracking spells that might ~~use you~~ find us with the connection between you and me.  Something like that._

_Be careful.  Goodbye._

_Kira_

_P.S. If you can, if things work out, apologize to Stiles for me.  Please._

_~~P.P.S. I love y~~ _

_P.P.S. I’ll miss you._

Scott can’t believe it.  He doesn’t understand why Kira’s mom would just drag her family out of Beacon Hills like they couldn’t leave fast enough.  He knows she’s never approved of him, although she was less obvious about it than Chris Argent was, who _really_ never approved of him for Allison, even after the man sort of got over the werewolf issue.

But he didn’t realize Mrs. Yukimura hated him so much that she’d use _Stiles_ of all people as an excuse to separate them.  And telling Kira all that crazy stuff about Stiles too!

Scott fishes out his own phone again, screen lighting up with the texts once more.

_:Scott pick up yr phone:_

_:I need to talk to u:_

_:SCOTT:_

_:Nvm just listen to me:_

_:My mom’s taking dad n me n wer leaving town:_

_:She says we never should’ve left stiles in eh, his spark’s gone crazy, he’s the one who levelled the place n this town’s been “marked for death”:_

_:His spark won’t forget what we did, she said:_

_:This isn’t:_

_:This is on us scott, not stiles:_

_:We never should’ve left him in there or messed with his mind or tried to control him:_

_:He was supposed to be our friend n I’ve never had a lot of friends but even I no that’s not what friends do:_

_:If he was making a mistake w peter then that was his mistake to make:_

_:N the most we should’ve done was keep an eye on peter n be there fr stiles if it rly went bad:_

_:We rly screwed up with this scott:_

_:Stiles was happy, we never should’ve interfered, especially the way we did:_

_:We had no right. We should’ve let stiles make his own decisions, he’s a human being not our pet or sth:_

_:We basically took his free will from him:_

_:We prob treat a pet better:_

_:I rly hope ul listen to me on this:_

_:Or read it I mean:_

_:Cuz I no u n I no u get blinkered vision sometimes n u just don’t LISTEN n I need u to listen to this:_

_:Wat we did isn’t sth stiles is gonna forgive:_

_:Or peter if he’s still alive:_

_:Mom won’t let me stay, she’ll nock me out if she has to n I don’t have a lot time left, I’m pcking rite now:_

_:So just:_

_:Be careful:_

_:I don’t think this is sth u can just say sry for n then move on from, not the way mom put it. N I can’t rly blame stiles for it but:_

_:I don’t want u to die:_

_:I don’t want any of us to die:_

_:So maybe idk ask yr mom to go on vaca or sth n warn pck, Idk if that help:_

_:I think mom thinks our only hope is to run n hope stiles will show mercy n not track us down, even if it just cuz too much effort:_

_:I gotta go mom’s calling:_

_:Be safe:_

_:I’ll miss u:_

Scott has no idea what to make of it all.  Kira sounds urgent, and maybe even a bit panicky.  But… But surely she’s just exaggerating.  Even if Stiles _did_ turn Eichen House into so much rubble – which Scott has his doubts about because _how_ would Stiles have done it?  He’s just human, and even the Nogitsune, back when it was possessing Stiles, couldn’t do something like that.  But even if Stiles did do it, with this Spark thing or whatever, Kira makes it sound as if- as if Stiles is out to _kill_ them all.  She makes it sound as if even _Mrs. Yukimura_ thinks Stiles is out to kill them all.  And that’s insane.  Sure, Stiles is probably pretty angry – he was angry before the whole memory removal thing, and if Deaton’s spell failed and Stiles now remembers Peter, he’ll be angry again, not to mention even if Stiles said yes, sort of, or at least he didn’t say no, he still probably didn’t _really_ want to return to Eichen House – but Stiles wouldn’t _kill_ them for any of that.  They’re friends.  Scott’s brother.  And Scott only… fixed Stiles’ memories a little, and then checked him into Eichen House, for Stiles’ own good.  Stiles has to understand that, no matter how mad he is.

If anything, Scott suspects Peter.  Peter got to Stiles somehow, and he did some- some magic or something – wouldn’t be the first time – and destroyed Eichen House just to get out, probably taking Stiles with him.

So this is all Peter’s fault.  Peter has Kira and her family running scared, Peter must have killed all those people – employees _and_ patients – in his bid to break out of Eichen House because Scott really doubts anybody else survived that cave-in, and Peter now has Stiles back in his clutches, probably doing his utmost to turn Stiles against Scott and the rest of the pack once again.

Scott clenches his hands into fists.  It’s always Peter’s fault.  Everything that’s happened.  Scott wouldn’t even be a werewolf if it wasn’t for Peter, and Stiles wouldn’t be so- so _enthralled_ with the crazy former Alpha if Peter didn’t- didn’t _seduce_ him.

Kira said Stiles was happy, but you can’t be _truly_ happy if the relationship isn’t even real.  Peter probably doesn’t even know what love is.  And Stiles is- Stiles loves _Lydia_.  He wouldn’t fall for someone like Peter, not unless he’s been forced to or tricked into it.  Besides, Stiles has never had any luck with his love life.  As bad as it sounds, people just aren’t really attracted to Scott’s best friend because his quirks can be a bit much.  And even Scott can admit that Peter’s a good-looking man, and good-looking people are generally not attracted to Stiles.  That’s been proven since he and Stiles were in middle school.  So Peter – who looks at all of them with contempt because he thinks none of them can keep up with his brain or that they’re too soft or that they actually have _morals_ – would never be genuinely attracted to someone like Stiles.

Lydia on the other hand – Scott’s seen her and Stiles getting closer, at least before the whole Peter debacle.  He’s seen how they were slowly becoming friends, ever since Jackson moved his douchey ass out of town.  So he’s always figured they would get together one day, and then, well, he sometimes likes to daydream about double dates – him and Al- him and Kira, and Stiles and Lydia.  They’d hang out together, he and Stiles would exchange long-suffering looks as they obediently trailed after the girls on one of their shopping sprees, they’d graduate together and go on to college together.  Maybe they might even have a double wedding one day, or at the very least, Scott and Stiles would be best man for each other’s wedding.  That’s something they promised each other since they were kids.

 None of that’s going to happen now, unless Scott stops Peter, because Peter’s ruined it all.  Scott’s girlfriend is long gone, and there’s no way to even go after her, by scent or electronically, even if he knew how to do the latter.  Stiles would know, but Stiles is with Peter, and Peter’s doing who knows what to him.

He needs to- He needs to get the pack together.  They need to make a plan of some kind, to defeat Peter.  Again.

Plans were so much easier when Stiles was still around.  On their side.  But Lydia will know what to do.  And Derek and Isaac will back them up, and Scott’s mom and the Sheriff should be brought in too.  They need to know how dire the situation’s become.  Also Scott needs to visit Deaton.  The vet always has good advice.

And once this is all over, once Stiles is no longer being influenced by Peter and he and Scott are friends again, Scott can focus on finding Kira, and once she’s back, everything will return to normal, just like it should be.

 

* * *

 

_Drip.  Drip.  Drip.  Dri-_

Peter shuts the door to the study as he steps back out in the hall.  The dripping noise gets surprisingly annoying.

“Stiles?”  He calls out as he washes he his hands in the bathroom sink, absently watching the pink-red swirl away down the drain.  “What do you want for lunch?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, but Peter wasn’t expecting one anyway, only to get Stiles thinking about it.  He makes his way to their bedroom, where Stiles is curled up in bed under the blankets.  He seems recovered from yesterday, but he’s nowhere near fixed.  Cured.  Whatever the word is for reversing the hellish damage that’s been inflicted on Stiles’ mind, and indirectly by his so-called friends no less.

Peter takes a deep breath and shunts those thoughts aside as best he’s able before stepping into the bedroom.  He doesn’t want to upset Stiles, and he tends go off on an increasingly enraged tangent if he doesn’t stop himself.

Instead, he knees up onto the bed, quirking a fond smile when the covers rustle a bit before Stiles’ mop of hair and amber eyes pop out to peer at him.

He still smells of fresh blood.  They both do.

“How about pasta?”  Peter suggests, combing fingers through unruly brown strands before settling a palm against the back of Stiles’ neck.  He tries drawing more pain but nothing comes, which is either a relief or a cause for concern because Stiles might be blocking him somehow.

The blankets stir with Stiles’ shrug.  The boy wriggles around until his head is resting comfortably on Peter’s thigh, and Peter thinks lunch can wait after all.  He settles himself against the headboard and tugs Stiles closer until the boy is nestled more securely against his side.  Cuddling is even nicer when you haven’t been allowed the pleasure in months.

Besides, cutting up druids is hard work; they deserve a little rest.

 

* * *

 

**[30 Minutes Earlier]**

Deaton screams and screams and screams.  Nobody who might help can hear him.

Peter watches with a vindictive sense of fascination as flesh peels back from muscle and bone, and blood runs the floorboards red.

Nobody’s even touching the druid.  But Stiles sits curled up in a chair, leaning against Peter’s shoulder, and watches Deaton with impassive eyes that simmer a heated otherworldly gold.

The last of the skin over his torso is flayed away, and Peter can actually count the ribs by sight and see the frantic pump of the man’s heart.  Flesh sags to the ground like a macabre facsimile of someone’s draperies.

It probably says a lot of things about Peter’s psyche when he still finds himself invariably charmed.  But then, he’s never claimed total sanity, especially after the fire and the coma.  Especially after Eichen House.

Deaton doesn’t have the breath to scream any longer.  He makes choked, desperate, defeated noises but can’t seem to form any words, chin slick with his own blood.

Peter turns his head and noses at Stiles’ temple.  “Very thorough, darling.”  He sighs regretfully.  “He might not last much longer though.”

Stiles hums under his breath, staring unblinkingly at eerily beautiful red lines that swirl their way down Deaton’s bare legs in intricate patterns.

“He’ll live as long as I want him to,” He says, and the distant blankness in his voice makes Peter pause.  He pulls back, just a little, which seems to draw Stiles’ attention to him.  The boy blinks sluggishly at him for a moment, and then his expression begins to shutter.

Peter is quick to put a stop to that.  Stiles may be able to level Beacon Hills with a wave of his hand but he’s still largely human, and a malnourished one at that, and it’s easy for Peter to scoop him up and settle the Spark in his lap instead.

“Hey, none of that,” He murmurs, previous dark humour forgotten in favour of catching and holding Stiles’ gaze no matter how encompassing the sheer _volume_ of power behind it is, and he’s gratified to see Stiles focusing – really focusing – on him in return.  Peter reaches up and cradles his mate’s face in his hands.

“I need you,” He continues quietly, intently, _needing_ Stiles to understand.  “I need you to stay with me.  This power you have now – however sentient – belongs to you.  You don’t belong to it.  _You_ are the Spark.  The Spark isn’t you.”  He combs a gentle hand through Stiles’ hair.  “I need you here with me, sweetheart, so don’t go getting lost in it, alright?”

The gold that burns in Stiles’ eyes dims, just a little, enough so that looking into them is less of a strain on Peter’s retinas.  Stiles slowly nods before shifting in place to press his face into Peter’s neck.  His fingers tangle in Peter’s shirt.  It’s the most affectionate he’s been since they left Eichen House behind, and Peter is achingly relieved that Stiles still remembers _how_.

A faint groan makes them both turn back to Deaton, who’s more unconscious than conscious at this point, and the sight of him only irritates Peter now.  He and Stiles were having a _moment_ , goddamn it.  Rare enough after so many months apart.

The druid can’t even beg properly anymore, and that isn’t much fun.  Deaton _did_ beg, even if it took a good three creative hours to force it out of him.

“Shall we finish up?”  Peter sighs, rubbing a hand down Stiles’ back before helping him onto his feet and then getting up himself.  “He’s getting boring.”

Stiles nods, and for all that his magic is still brimming like an overfull cup, there’s an exhausted cast to his features.

“Go wash up,” Peter urges, nudging him towards the door.  “I’ll finish here, and we can do cleanup later.”

Stiles nods again and wanders out, door swinging shut behind him.

Peter waits for the click before his attention swings back to the man in the chair, torn down and torn open.  Deaton’s head lolls forward, but his eyes are half-open, and there’s a tiny glimmer of lingering awareness there that surprises Peter.

“You always were intolerably obstinate in some ways, Alan,” Peter muses mildly, prowling closer and circling once before coming to a halt in front of Deaton again.

Deaton’s lips move.  When he manages to speak, his words come out as little more than a broken wheeze that Peter only hears because he’s a werewolf.

“Talia… wou’be… dis’oin’ed.”

“Like that,” Peter points out conversationally, and then his hand lashes out, and he catches the druid by the throat, yanking him up against the bindings tying him to the chair and paying no mind to the double cracks of two broken arms.

Deaton lets out a strangled shriek.

“We had our differences, Talia and I,” Peter tells him calmly, claws digging into vulnerable flesh.  “I’d be the first to admit it.  We drove each other up the wall sometimes.  But she was my sister, and I was her brother, and I don’t want you to die thinking you knew her better than I did.”  His grip tightens, and he lets his lips curl into a snarl.  “Because what you did to my mate?  She would’ve torn your heart out herself.  Look me in the eye – you know I’m not lying.  That’s why you never lifted a finger to help Derek or Laura.  Never lifted a finger to help me.  For all that you were our Emissary, you didn’t care about our pack.  You just cared that Talia never looked twice at you, never looked at you the way she looked at Joseph, never looked at you the way you looked at her and called it love.  And _you knew that already_.  But you just couldn’t let it go.  I suppose that-” His eyes burn blue.  “-would explain why your wards failed that night, wouldn’t it?”

Defeat smothers the last of the light in Deaton’s eyes before Peter even tears his throat out.  And then all he’s left with is a mutilated husk slumped over in the wooden chair, liquid crimson on his hands.

He takes a breath, and then another.

Deaton probably _didn’t_ mean for the wards to fail that night the Hale Pack burned, actually.  But wards were never Deaton’s strong suit, and it was peacetime, _civilized_ times – not as many conflicts were fought, even compared to what Peter can remember from back when he was a child, and so not as many precautions were taken.

More the fool them.

But it was the only reason why Peter never actively went after Deaton when he carried out his revenge.  Druids can be troublesome to deal with, and Peter was more focused on going after the people who he _knew_ had a hand in murdering his family.  And for all that Deaton never offered assistance to Derek or even Laura, never even visited Peter at the hospital, and was absolutely useless in saving Cora, Peter never quite believed his family’s old Emissary would actively _help_ Kate in any way, if only because it would harm Talia too, and so Peter left him alone as much as Deaton left the surviving Hales alone.  Inaction all around.

He regrets that now.  If he’d gutted Deaton to begin with, Stiles wouldn’t be… half out of his mind.

But it’s done now, too late, but done, and in part, Peter feels a hollow sort of satisfaction.  Mostly though, he thinks he’s simply glad it’s over.  At least for this pitiful excuse of a man.  There are still others that he can’t wait to sink his claws into.  But for now, the personal assurance that Deaton will never harm his mate again gives him a sense of peace.

He turns on his heel and leaves the room.  It’s time to get back to Stiles.

 

* * *

 

It is night, and the town is quiet as Chris drives past the _Welcome to Beacon Hills!_ sign.  It’s inappropriately cheery for a place with such a high death rate.  Chris is hard-pressed not to snort, morbidly amused.

There’s something about Beacon Hills though, something sinister.  It lures you in and never quite lets you leave.  Chris regrets ever even moving his family here.  He doesn’t even really understand why he’s coming back now, but after settling Isaac with a pack in France, he returned to the States, took the few jobs people still trusted – or rather, were desperate enough to risk – a disgraced Argent with, travelled aimlessly around a bit, on foot, on wheels, on foot again, and then he just drove.  Drove and drove, and now here he is, trees looming on either side of him as his car glides down the road leading into the town that cost him most of his family.

Maybe it’s because he has nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, nobody he has to answer to.  What distant cousins he has left sneered and spurned him for siding with the creatures they hunt or blamed him for the downfall of their family’s reputation in the hunter community.  And the Argent name is mud to the rest of the world.

Driving right back into the supernatural equivalent of a warzone at least keeps him busy.  And gives him less time to grieve.

It’s late.  His house was put up for sale so he’ll need to find a hotel to stay in for at least a few nights.  In the morning, he’ll track down Scott and find out what’s been happening while he was gone.  Although if he wants a more detailed overview, he’ll probably have better luck asking Stiles.

Either way, it’s a plan, even if it’s not much of one, and for now, that’s enough.  Hopefully, he hasn’t come back just in time to be thrown headfirst into another apocalyptic disaster, but he wouldn’t mind a little danger to keep him occupied.

One day at a time.  He’s been telling himself that for months.  No sense stopping now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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